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HE day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and
softer breast, Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone, Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous
waist ! Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes, Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradiseVanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday-or holinight Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight; But, as I've read love's missal through to-day, He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
CRY your mercy - pity - love! --aye, love!
Merciful love that tantalises not, One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
Unmask'd, and being seen— without a blot ! O! let me have thee whole, — all — all — be mine!
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes
That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,
Withhold no atom's atom or I die,
Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
HIS LAST SONNET."
RIGHT star! would I were steadfast as
thou artNot in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors No- yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
This was written in a copy of Shakespeare's Poems given to Mr. Severn a few days before. 2 Another reading :
“ Half-passionless, and so swoon on to death.”
OF DOUBTFUL AUTHENTICITY.
LEASURES lie thickest where no pleas
There's not a leaf that falls upon the ground
Some sprite begotten of a summer dream.
The very meanest things are made supreme, With innate ecstasy: the grain of sand But rolls a bright and million peopled land,
And hath its Eves and Edens- so I deem. For Love, though blind, a microscopic eye Has lent me, to behold the hearts of things,
And touch'd mine ear with power: thus far or nigh, Minute or mighty, fix'd or fleet with wings,
Delight from many a nameless covert-sky Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar rings.'
1 I believe this to be one of George Byron's forgeries.